The space feels strange. When you know what you don’t feel. And you ask yourself: “How is it so?” And where to strive if there is no path. You walked here in the summer, and now it’s grass. The clearing has overgrown, the branches have bent, somehow everything is different, it is not clear how. I move my hands, I bake a cake with raisins, everything goes as before. Only silence has become my friend, music plays from the neighbors window.

I will run here again, over a green field in color. And I will come to my native house at dawn. It smells of flowers and boiled potatoes. So satisfied, you will meet me. In that very garden, in a wooden arbor, we will sit closer, like hens. It is quiet and joyful here, only the flies are buzzing. Mountains of events happen on the pages. And it’s time for us to sleep. And you go too.

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